David Fernandes
Producer, Director, Writer

Roots, memory and stories

So, I’m off to Madeira today. It’s a sunny and warm day in London. Busy place, kind of like new york, except vaguely more polite – friendlier anyway. I can’t say I’d want to spend any extended time here. If I came back I’d check out a few galleries and bookstores, but otherwise it’s just another big, crowded, expensive city with probably too many very well dressed people in too much of a rush.

I didn’t manage to go out last night, choosing instead to catch up on sleep and write a bit. I did take a stroll through Soho right around the beginning of bar hopping time (which is the second work is over, apparently) – it was already rowdy.

I started thinking about roots and what it really means to be *from* somewhere. I was born in Canada, but I feel a connection to Madeira through my parents and family who were all born there and lived a solid chunk of their life there. I’m thinking about how I know Madeira mostly as a picture, painted by many overlapping, conflicting, and incomplete stories that my mother has told. I don’t know it as much through my father, so this is gonna be really interesting for me how much the picture changes.

I was also thinking about how when people in our lives die, we really aren’t left with much – some pictures, some documents that claim they existed, and maybe if we’re lucky, an old 8mm film or a video or two. And the memories we have change over time. They become less detailed. A little more like feelings and ideas than anything precise or vivd. I feel that way about my brother, who died when i was 13. Luckily i have some audio recordings of him singing and playing music, so I have something to recall his voice by – i think things like that help keep memories more vivid. But mostly he’s a fading ghost for me. I was a kid when he left. And largely, I remember him through the eyes of a kid. He really took on being a father figure when my father left us. He came back from BC and made sure he was present in my life when my father wasn’t. My strongest memories are of playing frisbee in the park or watching him play guitar. He introduced me to music, to art and to nature. And 21 years later, it’s hard to remember all that – events kind of blur into each other, the story changes, I probably make some things up. I remember the things I want to and interpret them in ways that i like.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about memory and story-telling and how the further away we get from something, the more the story changes – I think about that in terms of my mother and her non-stop stories – no narrative – just bits and pieces interconnected like some hyper-active web page with too many links. And I think about that too in terms of documentary and interviewing people about their past – about how people tell the stories they like to tell and avoid ones that conflict with the picture they want to paint. I think about how fallible memory is and how ultimately we tell stories because we have to – it’s the only way we know how to interpret our lives.

Anyway, I’m pretty intense today, but still finding moments to look around and just take things in. It is a very beautiful day.

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